Best for: Sand dunes, birdwatching and wild horses
Twitchers will probably know of this national park on the coastline of Andalusia in southern Spain. Doñana, around 35km from Seville, is a unique landscape of shifting sand dunes, salt marshes and grasslands – essentially, a haven for birdlife. More than 230 species have been spotted here, ranging from rare Spanish imperial eagles to flocks of pink flamingos – the latter can create quite the spectacle when gathered together on the lagoon to feed. Beyond the feathered species, wild horses can also be seen roaming the park, along with the endangered Iberian lynx.
2. Mljet National Park, Croatia
View of St Mary’s Island in Mljet National Park (Shutterstock)
Best for: Island exploring, swimming and snorkelling
Croatia is well-known for its magical, waterfall-filled national parks of Krka and Plitvice, but there are six other national parks in the country that highlight its other natural offerings. One of them is Mljet National Park, which encompasses a large proportion of the Dalmatian Island of the same name. Reached by ferry from Dubrovnik or Korcula, the protected area covers two saltwater lakes, Malo and Veliko, that are linked together by a narrow canal. Trails for walking and cycling surround the lakes and often lead to hidden beaches, while kayaking and swimming is permitted on the glassy water, too. Make sure to visit the 12th-century Benedictine monastery that sits on the small islet of St Mary within the national park.
3. Soomaa National Park, Estonia
The bog lakes of Soomaa National Park (Alamy)
Best for: Boats and bogs
Dubbed the Wilderness Capital of Estonia, Soomaa National Park is unique thanks to its ‘Fifth Season’. Every year after the spring thaw or heavy rainfall, Soomaa’s landscape of fields, forests and farmland becomes completely flooded, resorting to the only transportation option around the national park being by boat. Locals here have now adjusted to this way of life with their own boats – and now visitors can now join guided canoe tours, paddling through flooded trees and meadows. But when Soomaa isn’t covered in water, there’s still plenty to do. Explore the vast bogs and wetlands by walking well-marked trails and across boardwalks. For a more immersive experience, you can even put on a pair of ‘bog shoes’ and feel the spongey ground beneath your feet.
4. Saxon Switzerland National Park, Germany
Bastei Bridge is one of the most iconic sites of Saxon Switzerland National Park (Shutterstock)
Best for: Artistic inspiration
Many might consider Bavaria to be the home of Germany’s most enchanting landscapes, but Saxon Switzerland National Park certainly gives the southern region a run for its money. Located just 30km from the city of Dresden, this national park is known for its otherworldly sandstone rock formations, attracting climbers from around the world. But that’s not the only activity available here: hiking and cycle routes lead through forests, past ancient fortresses and alongside the river Elbe. Follow the Painters Way trail and you’ll discover landscapes that inspired famous artists such as Caspar David Friedrich. Make sure you stop off to see the striking, 300-metre high Bastei Bridge.
5. Peneda-Gerês National Park, Portugal
View of historic Lindoso village in Peneda-Gerês National Park (Shutterstock)
Best for: Mountain villages and multi-day hikes
Portugal’s only national park, Peneda-Gerês, is tucked into the far north-west corner of the country close to the border of Spain – and with a varied landscape of oak forests, wildflower meadows, waterfalls and mountains, it’s NP status is thoroughly deserved. There are 15 official hiking trails throughout the park that range from a few kilometres to more strenuous, day-long hikes. But the ultimate challenge is the 160km GR50 trail. With 19 stages, the route follows Roman roads and pilgrim paths with each stage ending in one of the park’s historic mountain villages. Adventurers can cool off with some kayaking and other water-based activities at Caniçada Reservoir, located within the heart of the park.
6. South Downs National Park, England
Cuckmere Haven in South Downs National Park (Alamy)
Best for: Coastal walks and stargazing
Many visitors to the UK are often drawn to mountainous landscapes of the Lake District and Snowdonia, but South Downs National Park – just 1.5 hour train ride from London – showcases some of the best of England’s coastline and countryside. Designated a national park in 2010, it stretches from the Seven Sisters cliffs in Eastbourne all the way to Winchester, 140km away. Keen ramblers can hike the whole stretch along a national trail – or – there are plenty of other easy-going rambles through woodlands, lowland heath, chalk grassland and charming market towns. South Downs National Park has also been designated an International Dark Sky Reserve, boasting some of the most pristine night skies in Europe – ideal for stargazing (particularly at Bignor Hill).
7. Sarek National Park, Sweden
Sarek’s delta landscape from above (Shutterstock)
Best for: Experienced hikers and Sami culture
With 2,000 metres high mountains, more than 100 glaciers and the gushing water of the Rapa River running through its narrow valleys, Sarek National Park was established back in 1909 and is now thought to be one of the last remaining untouched wildernesses of Europe. Why? This protected area in Swedish Lapland has no roads, marked trails or mountain refuge huts, therefore orientation skills are an essential for any visitor. Alternatively, join a trekking tour to safely guide you across the vast deltas and soaring peaks: this is highly advised as you might even come across wild animals such as brown bears, lynxes, moose and wolves. Sarek is also deeply rooted in Sami culture, with Indigenous people using the land for reindeer herding over multiple generations.
8. Triglav National Park, Slovenia
Cycling in Triglav National Park (Shutterstock)
Best for: Hiking through pristine Alpine scenery
Slovenia’s only national park can be found within the Julian Alps and gets its name from the highest mountain in the country – the 2,864-metre-tall Triglav. The three-headed mountain is considered an icon of Slovenian culture, so much so it features on the national flag. Climbing to the summit is possible for intermediate hikers, but there’s lots more to discover within the national park. Lake Bohinj lies at its heart and is popular for paddle boarding and other relaxing watersports. For adrenaline-pumping activities, head to park’s narrow gorges for a spot of canyoning: which involves abseiling, jumping into rockpools and sliding down waterfalls.
9. Calanques National Park, France
The beautiful limestone cliffs of Calanques National Park (Alamy)
Best for: Secret coves, snorkelling and relaxation
Holidaymakers might swarm to the beaches along the Cote d’Azur during the summer months, but savvy travellers who want to find a hidden cove of their own will head to Calanques National Park – situated between Marseille and Cassi. The Calanques – a network of craggy, limestone cliffs – is also home to tiny white sand patches that are lapped by turquoise waters. Some of these miniature beaches are accessible, while others are impossible to reach. However, a little effort is required for the easiest-to-reach spots, which can put off visitors. Kayaking is also a popular activity among the tiny fjords, or perhaps even don a snorkel and goggles to discover an underwater world of octopuses, seahorses and other marine life.
Vikos Gorge in Vikos–Aoös National Park (Shutterstock)
Best for: Giant gorges, stone villages and river rafting
Founded in 1973, Vikos–Aoös National Park is located within Greece’s Pindus Mountains and offers an alternative natural side to the country beyond its popular islands. Within the park is Vikos Gorge, considered the deepest in the world (1,300 metres) in relativity to its width. There are hundreds of marked trails weaving through the region, passing through historic villages and past stone bridges. Voidomatis River – popular for rafting beginners – flows between the canyon walls and is regarded as one of the cleanest rivers in Europe with water you can drink directly from its springs.
The Suvuti is a secret corner of Chobe National Park (Shutterstock)
Botswana’s Chobe National Park is not off the beaten track. But even big, headline-grabbing wildlife areas have corners that few explore. The Savuti – meaning ‘mystery’ – is such a place. Lying on Chobe’s western border, this game-packed wilderness is difficult to reach (flying in is your best bet), so relatively few do. It is known for its huge prides of elephant-hunting lions (a rare sight) and spotted hyena. It also has its own great migration: in November, zebra, wildebeest and buffalo in their thousands move south into the Savuti, looking for fresh grasses, before returning north in February. The area is characterised by the enigmatic Savuti Channel, which runs 100km from the Chobe River to Savuti marsh; it’s often bone-dry but periodically floods spectacularly. Along its northerly banks you’ll find the Linyanti Concession, a remote, private reserve, home to huge elephant herds and wild dogs that might be seen hunting in packs. Tours often combine the Savuti and Linyanti in one wild trip.
Also see: Tiny Mokolodi Nature Reserve, just south of capital Gabarone, is Botswana’s only not-for-profit park. Its cycling routes offer a rare and unusual way of exploring the bush, while giraffe and rhino tracking tours take you thrillingly close to the action.
2. Majete Wildlife Reserve, Malawi
Zebras at the watering hole in Majete Wildlife Reserve (Shutterstock)
By the late 1990s poaching had devastated Majete Wildlife Reserve. There was very little left to see; indeed, the reserve didn’t receive a single visitor between 2000 and 2003. Then the NGO African Parks took over management of Majete and, over the subsequent years, the reserve has been transformed. More than 5,000 animals from 17 species have been brought in; the arrival of lions in 2012 completed the Big Five. But it has been the measures taken to stop poaching that have had the greatest impact. Not one rhino or elephant has been illegally killed in the reserve since they were introduced. Facilities have also improved. Lodges and campsites now include the luxurious Mkulumadzi, set within a private concession, and Thawale Lodge, revamped during lockdown, where the watering hole has become a prime spot for elephant sightings. In short, Majete is one of Africa’s great wildlife comebacks.
Also see: Another amazing story is that of Malawi’s Nkhotakota Wildlife Reserve. It was once home to 1,500 elephants but, due to poaching, by 2015 there were barely 100 left. This was when ‘Operation 500 elephants’ was put into action, as animals were shipped in from Liwonde National Park and Majete, restocking the numbers and revitalising the reserve.
3. Kidepo Valley National Park, Uganda
Sunset at remote Kidepo Valley (Shutterstock)
It doesn’t get much more remote than Uganda’s Kidepo Valley NP. Some 700km north of capital Kampala, on the border with South Sudan, spread across the sun-bleached grasslands of the Karamoja region, it is visited by few travellers. Those that do arrive may discover one of East Africa’s rarest sights: tree-climbing lions. It’s a quirk more readily associated with the big cats of Uganda’s Queen Elizabeth NP or Lake Manyara NP in Tanzania, and while it’s not common here, it does happen – a result of lions wanting to either escape irritating bugs on the ground or simply snag a cool breeze. When not scouring the branches of sausage trees for unconventional felines – or for the park’s 475 recorded species of birds – look out for cheetah. This is the only part of Uganda where you’ll find these stately cats, and sightings are reassuringly regular. Kidepo also rewards the adventurous traveller, with visits to the boiling hot springs of Kanangorok and day hikes into the Morungole Mountains, pit-stopping at Ik villages en route, offering challenges aplenty.
Also see: Mgahinga Gorilla NP – Uganda’s smallest national park – lives in the shadow of better-known Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. It is quite a trek to reach, nestled deep in the south-west between three extinct volcanoes, but hikes to visit the habituated group of mountain gorillas that live in the Virunga hills here are no less rewarding.
4. Gorongosa National Park, Mozambique
Millions of trees have been planted at Gorongosa (Shutterstock)
Mozambique’s brutal civil war, which raged from 1977 to 1992, had a devastating impact on the protected area of Gorongosa, at the southern tail of the Great Rift Valley. During this period the park lost some 90% of its wildlife. However, since 2004, when a US philanthropist teamed up with the Mozambican government, Gorongosa has been resurrected. Millions of trees have been replanted; wild dog, elephant, zebra, hippo and other species have been brought in; local people (a third of them women) have been trained as guides and rangers to help monitor and protect the wildlife. As a measure of the project’s success: fewer than 200 elephants survived the war, now 800 to 1,000 crash about the floodplains, woodlands and savannah, in the shadow of Mount Gorongosa. In 2018 a pack of 14 painted wolves (wild dogs) was released and has thrived; visits between August and September might be rewarded with sightings of exuberant pups emerging from their dens. It’s a lost world reborn.
Also see: Mountainous Chimanimani NP was only elevated to national park status in 2020 and lies across the border from the similarly named park in Zimbabwe, forming the Chimanimani Transfrontier Park. The area, also impacted by the war, remains little-visited but may yield sightings of rare mountain elephants.
5. Phinda Private Game Reserve, South Africa
Get involved with Rhino research at Phinda (Shutterstock)
The pangolin is thought to be the world’s most trafficked wild mammal. Its susceptibility to the worst of human impulses means that of the four species found in Africa, all are classified either ‘Vulnerable’ or ‘Endangered’. The Temminck’s pangolin is believed to be the most numerous, and the only species found in southern Africa. They haven’t been seen in KwaZulu-Natal since 1973; however, the South African province’s Phinda Private Game Reserve – which has a history of successfully running breeding programmes to supply other parks with lost populations of animals – is undertaking a reintroduction project. Tours at Phinda allow guests to assist with rhino, elephant and pangolin research, monitoring their progress in the wild. The reserve also offers bush walks, which may yield sightings of black rhino and red duiker, as well as Big Five game drives.
Also see: Samara Private Game Reserve in South Africa’s Eastern Cape has been rewilding a chunk of the semi-desert Great Karoo for 25 years; it is has reintroduced species such as cheetah, elephant, black rhino and lion, which were wiped out here in the late 19th century. It’s a compelling story of farmers turned conservationists. What’s more, only 30 guests are allowed to visit at any one time, so it never feels crowded.
6. Matusadona National Park, Zimbabwe
See buffalo grazing on the plains in Matusadona (Shutterstock)
This forgotten park lies on the edge of Lake Kariba, the world’s largest man-made lake. Some 6,000 animals were relocated here (though many more weren’t) when the Zambezi Basin was flooded to form the lake in 1958. Today, Matusadona NP sits snugly on Kariba’s northern shore, squeezed between the Sanyati and Sengwa rivers and the Matuzviadonha hills from which it gains its name (the word translates as ‘falling dung’, likely in honour of the area’s lively elephant population). At its peak, the park’s density of lion and black rhino was impressive, but by the time its operation was taken over by African Parks in 2019, poaching had devastated numbers and few facilities were left. However, even as restoration work begins, Matusadona’s intrinsic wildness remains. Rugged hills sweep down to flat grassland plains, which in turn give way to petrified forest. Options include Jeep and walking safaris, which may bring you close to the park’s 1,000-strong herds of buffalo grazing on the plains. Or instead cruise the drowned woodlands where some 240 species of bird have been recorded, including African fish eagles – you might spot them swooping down to the water, talons primed for a catch.
Also see: Zimbabwe, despite its abundance of wildlife, is still off most travellers’ hit lists. Even its better-known national parks, such as Mana Pools – famous for its huge elephant population – has more pachyderms (around 11,500) than annual visitors (around 7,000). It’s a shame, as Mana Pools offers some incredible experiences, including canoe safaris along the Lower Zambezi, on which you can paddle gently past drinking elephants and grunting hippos.
7. Ruaha National Park, Tanzania
Ruaha has one of the biggest single populations of lions in Africa (Shutterstock)
It’s odd that Tanzania’s second-largest national park, home to one of the biggest single populations of lions in Africa, is still one of its least known. Add to that more than 500 bird species, elephants migrating in their thousands, healthy populations of wild dog, leopard and cheetah, and the rare sight of greater and lesser kudu in the same area, and Ruaha’s anonymity becomes baffling. The answer perhaps lies in its remoteness. Only a tenth of the park, which sprawls across an isolated area of the Great Rift Valley, is given over to tourism; the rest is pure, unadulterated wilderness. Even in those parts of the park that visitors can explore, the low-impact approach here (there are just a handful of camps) means you will rarely see another soul, even during dry season (May-November) when sightings along the shrinking riverbanks are at their best. Ruaha’s large open plains and groves of fat baobabs flanked by rocky outcrops and inselbergs also ensure magical walking safaris, while fly camps allow you to forge deep into this lonely paradise.
Also see: Tanzania’s Rubondo Island NP occupies a forested isle in the south-west corner of Lake Victoria. Wild and uninhabited, it’s become a haven for rescued chimps after they were introduced in the 1960s (it began with 16; now there are more than 60). A lakeside camp offers a serene waterside stay and ample birding opportunities.
8. Zakouma National Park, Chad
See vast herds of elephants (Shutterstock)
In what has become a familiar story, the future of Chad’s oldest national park, Zakouma, was hanging in the balance until relatively recently. In the first decade of the 21st century, some 95% of its 4,000 elephants were slaughtered by poachers on horseback while civil war raged across the country (from 2005 to 2010). African Parks took over the running of Zakouma in 2010 and, with security now beefed up, no elephant has been poached here since 2016. Subsequently, small numbers of tourists have started to visit: this is now the closest national park to Europe where you can see the Big Five. Facilities are minimal. The nomadic eight-tent Camp Nomade, which sets up around the birding wetlands of Rigueik Pan for much of the year, is the plushest option. The more functional government lodge is now over 50 years old. But the unique wildlife is what makes Zakouma unmissable. Its riverine forests and grassland plains are home to half of Africa’s entire population of Kordofan giraffes as well as roan antelope, black-crowned cranes and vast herds of elephants.
Also see: The only other park in Chad commonly included on tours is the dramatic sandstone landscape of the Ennedi Natural and Cultural Reserve. It’s best known for birds, flora and the desert-adapted West African crocodile, which has learned to survive the arid climate by staying in caves and burrows when water is scarce.
9. Kunene Region, Namibia
Kunene Region is home to many desert-adapted wildlife (Shutterstock)
As Africa’s landscapes change, so do its animals. Amid the parched, sandy bush of north-west Namibia’s Kunene Region, you can see incredible desert-adapted wildlife: elephant, rhino and lion thriving in the arid terrain. Indeed, while trends for wildlife are mostly on the downturn worldwide, Namibia’s desert-adapted black rhino population is increasing. But then, Namibia takes conservation very seriously: environmental protection is incorporated into its constitution and nearly half of the land is protected in some way, with communal conservancies covering one-fifth of the country. This pioneering model of land management sees Indigenous communities directly invested in monitoring and protecting wildlife, and directly benefiting from tourism enterprises operating there. Places such as the Desert Rhino Camp, in the vast 5,500 sq km Palmwag Concession of Damaraland, for example, works with local communities; people earn a livelihood while guests enjoy encounters with desert-adapted lion and black rhino with no one else for miles. Similarly, in the remote Kaokoveld, Conservancy Safaris run expeditions into the Torra Conservancy, which provide excellent rhino-tracking experiences, funds for conservation and employment opportunities.
Also see: Etaambura Camp, set in the hills above the holy plains of Onjuva, is both co-owned and run by Namibia’s Himba. Tradition has it that animals on the plains are protected by ancestral spirits, and strolls reveal evidence of genet and African wildcat amid the blooming bottle trees and purple-pod terminalia.
10. Mara North Conservancy, Kenya
Impalas can be seen in the Mara North Conservancy (Shutterstock)
What if you could witness the Great Migration without being surrounded by other binocular-waving tourists? In 2009 a group of Maasai landowners came together to protect what was becoming an increasingly degraded part of the Masai Mara National Reserve. They formed the Mara North Conservancy, partnering with a small number of lodges, camps and safari operators to safeguard the land and the futures of the 800-plus Maasai it supports. This created the largest (275 sq km) of the ‘Big Four’ conservancies within the reserve. Its low-impact, eco-focused tourism ensures not just a fair rent for its indigenous people, but ensures that the crowding found in other parts of the Mara doesn’t happen here. Visitors are limited to those staying within the conservancy, so when the huge herds of wildebeest and zebra pass through the golden grasses of its savannah each year (usually June-October), numbers at sightings are strictly controlled. Other wild wonders here include Leopard Gorge, where rocky outcrops offer cover for big cats to prey on impala and gazelle, and the Lemek Hills, a refuge for African wild dogs. Best of all, you’ll have these areas largely to yourself.
Also see: Among the Big Four conservancies in the Mara, Oi Kinyei was the first to be established. Here, among the rolling hills and grasslands, you’ll find the highest density of lions in any one area, so sightings (shared between just two camps) can be spectacular.
11. North Luangwa National Park, Zambia
Hippos lurking the water at North Lwanga National Park (Shutterstock)
Walking safaris were pioneered in Zambia in the 1950s. They are now legendary, particularly those in South Luangwa NP, which lies far enough off the beaten track to warrant ‘secret’ status itself. This patchwork of pristine woodland and plains still feels like a forgotten world, even if it’s one that comes with an increasing number of luxury camps. However, for those wanting to escape further, a short flight to its northern cousin (known as North Park) is a must. Walking safaris here pick their way along the shallow banks of the Mwaleshi tributary. In the dry season, this recedes, leaving a trail of pools that draws animals to the banks where no 4WDs are allowed. There are only three camps inside the park (operating June-October); Mwaleshi is walk-only while Takwela, opened in 2019, offers game drives into remote areas. The park is especially known for its large prides of lions, vast herds of buffalo and reintroduced black rhino, but the main allure is the intimacy of exploring one step at a time and sleeping out in the isolated bush, far from any other people.
Also see: Surprisingly, given its huge expanse, western Zambia’s Kafue NP (which is roughly the size of Wales) is very little visited. A balloon flight over its lonely Busanga Plains, where lions converge on wary antelope, makes for a truly unforgettable experience.
12. Somkhanda Game Reserve, South Africa
Somkhanda runs wild dog breeding programmes (Shutterstock)
Some success stories go beyond conservation. The land that makes up this community-owned reserve in KwaZulu-Natal’s Zululand belongs to the Gumbi people, who were stripped of the rights to it in the 1960s under Apartheid. They only successfully won back their ancestral claim in 2005, as part of the post-Apartheid restitution. It was returned to them degraded from overgrazing, so they made the decision to set aside the bulk of the land for conservation, making it the first community-owned game reserve to emerge from this process. It’s a wonderful gift salvaged from a brutal past and affords jobs and income for the community. It also forms an important wildlife corridor alongside its two neighbouring reserves, while the success of its black rhino and wild dog breeding programmes has been encouraging. For travellers, it’s a rival to any of South Africa’s great parks in terms of sightings, with all the Big Five here, including both white and black rhino and an unusually high density of leopards.
Also see: Buffalo Ridge, in Madikwe Game Reserve, claims to be South Africa’s first 100% community-owned safari camp. Operated by the Balete Ba Lekgophung people, it’s a great base for exploring this reserve, where the Big Five are accompanied by brown hyena and aardwolf.
13. Akagera National Park, Rwanda
Explore Central Africa’s largest protected wetland (Shutterstock)
The Rwandan civil war saw so many tragedies. After it ended, the consequences continued for its wildlife. In 1994 Rwanda’s dispossessed Tutsi people were resettled along the Tanzanian border, encroaching on what was then part of Akagera National Park. Conflict with the local wildlife was inevitable as buffalo and zebra jostled alongside 700,000 cattle for grazing space. Poaching became rife and by 2002 the last of the park’s 300 lions had died, many of them poisoned by farmers. For a long time Akagera was a cautionary tale; now, a decade after its running was taken over by NGO African Parks, things have turned around for Central Africa’s largest protected wetland. The reintroductions of lion and black rhino are just one miracle; others have included keeping them alive and smoothing relations with villagers. For visitors, it means you can now see the Big Five just two hours’ drive from Kigali, yet the park still flies under the radar.
Also see: The mountain gorilla of the Virunga steal the headlines in Rwanda but spare time for chimp-trekking in the Nyungwe Forest NP. Sightings aren’t guaranteed but if you’re lucky you may have the chance to see their nests and observe their daily activities, from feeding to socialising.
“Oh, there’s an orangutan.” I’d been in Sabah, the jungle state in the far north of Malaysian Borneo, for less than two hours. It was barely 30 minutes since I’d checked in at my first hotel in Sepilok and there, in a tree facing my balcony, was a large and hairy ginger shape. In fact, there was another in the next tree along. The two wild orangutans were just going about their business, one casually sitting, the other pulling on branches and eating. It was an apt introduction to a destination where some of the wildest sights you could ever hope to see often linger just outside your bedroom.
I’d wanted to visit Borneo for decades, ever since I’d seen it on David Attenborough’s acclaimed documentaries, yet somehow it had never happened. I must admit that I’d been concerned whether I’d left it too late. Would Sabah still be full of the weird and wonderful wildlife that had caught my imagination back then? So, to have my first sighting of a critically endangered Borneo orangutan happen so fast felt serendipitous.
The rainforest facing the MY Nature Resort hotel was to yield more surprises, as guests were invited to congregate just before 6pm to watch the resident red giant flying squirrels. As we munched on banana fritters, manager Edmundo explained that there is a species of giant cicada that starts singing at 6pm; this is the sign for the squirrels to emerge from their holes and nest boxes in the trees. But the cicadas were late that evening, and dusk was well and truly falling when they finally burst into a cacophony of sound.
As if on cue, a red head popped gamely out of a nest box. The squirrel scampered up the tree to the top and then launched itself off into space, gliding effortlessly for around a hundred metres or so to another tree. A full moon was rising, and we all turned to each other and hugged, a little emotional at the magic of it all…
Every spring, the sea ice in the fjords of Baffin Island begins to break up, creating a ‘line of life’ that attracts seals, polar bears and even the mythical narwhal
In search of narwhals, seals and polar bears on Baffin Island
Every spring, the sea ice in the fjords of Baffin Island begins to break up, creating a ‘line of life’ that attracts seals, polar bears and even the mythical narwhal
Words & photographs Phoebe Smith
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The colourful houses of Pond Inlet stand out against the icy surrounds
The colourful houses of Pond Inlet stand out against the icy surrounds
An inukshuk made by a hunter to mark safe passage around a crack in the ice
An inukshuk made by a hunter to mark safe passage around a crack in the ice
The author’s view from her tent at base camp
The author’s view from her tent at base camp
There’s a legend told among the Inuit of the Canadian Arctic that all the animals in the sea are controlled by a mermaid-like goddess called Taluliyuk. The story goes that she was thrown off a canoe by her angry father and when she tried to cling onto the side, he cut off her fingers and they became the whales, walruses and seals that populate these icy waters. It’s said that if she is angered by humans not respecting the environment, she will entangle all the marine mammals in her long hair, helping them evade hunters and thereby stopping them from providing isolated communities with much-needed food, clothing and tools.
On a cold day in early summer, while floating in the waters of Baffin Bay wearing a black dry suit and lobster-shaped gloves, it occurred to me how easily I could be mistaken for a half-woman, half-fish sea creature. Thankfully, I still had all my fingers – though that might not be the case if I’d stayed in the -2°C water much longer. This wasn’t a pleasure swim; I was on the search for a creature as mythical as Taluliyuk herself: the narwhal.
The author searches for narwhal amid the frozen water;
The author searches for narwhal amid the frozen water;
The adventure had begun in Pond Inlet after a three-hour flight from Iqaluit, the regional capital of the Canadian Territory of Nunavut. Myself and a party of 12 were introduced to our expedition leader, Jaime Sharp, a New Zealander who had just come from guiding visitors on a polar bear safari in Churchill. He was accompanied by our Inuit team, led by an elder and artist called Billy Merkosak. On arrival, we were split into groups and boarded our qamutiks – makeshift wooden sleds pulled behind snowmobiles.
The sky appeared to become bluer as we creaked over the hardened icy ground. The mountains glistened in the distance, their snow-encased ridges dazzling in the sunlight. After two hours, we reached our base camp at Eclipse Sound, a cluster of yellow tents (our bedrooms) and white marquees (the kitchen and dining hall). From here, the floe edge – the part of the fjord where the sea ice had begun to melt into narrow channels of water, bringing with it hungry wildlife – was a two-hour drive away, Jaime told us.
“With climate change warming the waters, the summer ice cover is rapidly diminishing here”
“We used to camp much nearer, but the effects of climate change mean we cannot anymore,” explained Billy later that afternoon, as we finally arrived at our narwhal-watching spot. “The season is shorter and the ice forms later and melts quicker, so we are always reading the ice.”
It was then that Billy told me the story of Taluliyuk. I couldn’t help but think that we humans had been doing a lot to anger the sea goddess recently. We headed back to camp without a sighting, though our spirits were soon lifted by the feast of freshly cooked caribou steaks (or a cauliflower equivalent for the vegetarians), spiced veggies and rice that awaited. And before we went to bed, Billy told us the Inuit legend of the narwhal.
One of the many sled dogs who live on the frozen bay of Pond Inlet
One of the many sled dogs who live on the frozen bay of Pond Inlet
“There are different versions,” he said, “but the one I was told is that an elder woman with long hair was hunting for white whales with a rope tied around her waist. She was suddenly pulled into the water, and as they dived her into the deep, she twisted her hair into a horn and it froze. She became the first narwhal.”
The name narwhal itself comes from the Norse word ‘nár’, which translates as ‘cadaver’, presumably given due to the creature’s mottled grey-and-white colouring. The purpose of its horn, or elongated tooth, however, is still a mystery to scientists. Some believe it’s used to spear fish, others postulate it’s for echo-location – though this wouldn’t explain why many females haven’t got one. Another theory is that it’s used for fighting. Whatever the purpose, back in medieval times it was harvested by seafaring Vikings and sold to unsuspecting Europeans and Asians as ‘genuine unicorn horn’. Danish kings are even said to have grated it into their wine to ensure a long life, though eating narwhal meat was said to induce a corpse-like state.
The route from Pond Inlet to base camp is a tough one – a motorway of frozen sea ice that has been pockmarked by seal holes and is best traversed by snowmobile
The route from Pond Inlet to base camp is a tough one – a motorway of frozen sea ice that has been pockmarked by seal holes and is best traversed by snowmobile
In Inuit tradition, the value of the narwhal horn is – as with any animal – judged by its use in everyday life.
“We use the tusks as tent poles,” said Billy. “The blubber is very high in protein and vitamin C, which is vital to our diet. The skin and sinew are dried out and can be made into clothing and thread, and the intestines can be packed with fermented meat and dried out to last year-round. To the Inuit people, the narwhal is everything.”
Joe was the camp’s polar bear lookout – he said that he was not afraid of bears, though he was terrified of black flies!
Joe was the camp’s polar bear lookout – he said that he was not afraid of bears, though he was terrified of black flies!
That night, my dreams were filled with unicorns; only occasionally did I rouse to hear the sound of melting snow slip down the sides of my tent, or the footsteps of Joe – the polar-bear patrolman – who kept us safe from any unexpected ursine visitors.
A little after dawn, we went back to the floe edge (or sinaaq) to look for narwhal again. The 24-hour sunlight at this time of year causes tiny microorganisms to energise and grow, attracting fish such as cod and halibut – a much sought-after meal for the narwhal.
“The floe edge is a safer spot for narwhal to calve, away from predators such as orca,” explained Jaime as we spotted unidentifiable fins far away on the horizon.
The ice near the floe edge begins to break up in the relative warmth of the Arctic summer
The ice near the floe edge begins to break up in the relative warmth of the Arctic summer
While we watched a flock of king eider come into the shallows, their multi-coloured faces almost gaudy amid the monochrome, Billy went to speak to some hunters further along the edge. When he returned, he said that some narwhal had been spied but they were very far in the distance. With climate change warming the waters, the summer ice cover is rapidly diminishing here. Some Inuit hunters say that the number of killer whales being spotted is increasing noticeably, meaning that narwhal are being hunted in larger numbers than ever before.
After a hot lunch of spicy soup, mist began to spool across the water, so Billy led us further inland to check out some of the icebergs that had arrived here from Greenland. We spent the afternoon wandering amid frozen sculptures. Some had been carved by the wind and sun into chairs, tree-like protrusions and slabs as big as apartment blocks; others had been made by humans, who had purposely created inukshuk (marker cairns) from huge blocks of ice. These lined a newly formed crack in the ever-shifting ice as a warning.
This large male polar bear, spotted close to camp, was still sleepy after feasting on a seal
This large male polar bear, spotted close to camp, was still sleepy after feasting on a seal
The next two days saw us explore this constantly changing landscape further. We spotted little auks, terns and skuas, and a curious Arctic fox whose cheeks looked as though they had been painted with blusher. We saw ringed seals of every shape and size leaping in and out of ice holes. On one ride out, Billy signalled all the snowmobiles to stop as a huge male polar bear passed right in front of us. Another time, we stumbled upon the footprints of a mother and her two cubs, after he had skilfully tracked them across the expansive frozen fjord.
On our final day, we resolutely made for the floe edge again, giving ourselves as much time as possible to spot our unicorns. We sat on foldaway chairs for several hours, drinking warm tea, eating freshly made cookies and talking about the narwhal encounters Billy and his team had enjoyed over the years.
The search for wildlife amid the Arctic waters and floating sea ice – this was taken just before a polar bear was spotted swimming between the kayaks
The search for wildlife amid the Arctic waters and floating sea ice – this was taken just before a polar bear was spotted swimming between the kayaks
For them, the idea of hoping to see one to photograph rather than hunt is still novel but, as Billy explained: “We share your fascination with them; they are, and always will be, special to us here in the Arctic, and it’s important that we protect them.”
Roughly 75% of the entire population of the world’s narwhal migrate to the waters around Baffin Island every year, making this the only place in the world you realistically have a chance of seeing them. But studies now show that narwhal numbers are decreasing, and by a lot. In 2004, the estimated population was 20,000; this had dropped to 12,000 by 2016; and in 2021, there were just 2,595 recorded.
Sitting, watching and waiting becomes your default setting on a polar safari
Sitting, watching and waiting becomes your default setting on a polar safari
In a final attempt to see one in the wild, I allowed myself a narwhal’s-eye view by snorkelling the sea ice and checking out the endless dark ocean beneath my fins. I ended my visit with a kayak excursion with Jaime. We saw no narwhal, but we did spy a polar bear leaping into the water in front of us. We both watched in silence as it swam away.
It’s always sad to leave a place without seeing the species you’d hoped to see, but I left with a sense of optimism. Just a few months prior to my visit, hunters and environmentalists had been lobbying together for greater protection of these waters and the creatures that live in them, following news that a nearby mine was looking to expand. Despite the mine’s presence accounting for up to a quarter of the territory’s GDP, a study showed that sound from the operations was affecting narwhal behaviour and numbers (disputed, unsurprisingly, by the mining company).
A mother polar bear and her cub wander beneath the mass of Bylot Island
A mother polar bear and her cub wander beneath the mass of Bylot Island
This partnership, momentarily, managed to halt further development. And although the mine was recently given approval to increase its output until the end of 2024, the volume of protests against it showed the world that long-term gains from having a healthy wildlife population (and the accompanying income from wildlife tourism) can win out against short-term profits. At least for a while.
As I looked back at the water from my qamutik, still hoping to spy the arched back of a diving narwhal glistening in the sunlight, it occurred to me that the long-term security of these creatures was far more precious than seeing a whale with a horn on its head. Because when two groups on very different sides of the table can work together to help protect something, then there is still a chance that Taluliyuk may once again release her marine mammals to the surface.
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The colourful bill of a king eider seems almost garish against the blue-and-white backdrop of the Arctic
The colourful bill of a king eider seems almost garish against the blue-and-white backdrop of the Arctic
A frozen tree of ice juts out like an ornament on the iceberg Billy calls his ‘castle’
A frozen tree of ice juts out like an ornament on the iceberg Billy calls his ‘castle’
The Inuit team could fix just about any problem with a snowmobile
The Inuit team could fix just about any problem with a snowmobile
Need to know
Getting there From the UK, flights to the Canadian Arctic go via Ottawa. Air Canada has daily flights from London Heathrow to Ottawa via Montreal and take around ten hours. Canadian North runs daily flights from Canada’s capital to Iqaluit, the regional capital of Nunavut (3 hours), and on to Pond Inlet (2.5 hours). From there you require a guide and a snowmobile to reach the floe edge. It takes about two hours to get to Eclipse Sound (where the camp is) and a further two hours to get to the water.
What to expect Everything in the Arctic is governed by the weather and ice, which is unpredictable. It’s not uncommon for flights to Pond Inlet (and even Iqaluit) to be cancelled at short notice, or for them to start flying and have to turn around mid-air. Conditions can change fast on the floe edge; hours, or even days, stuck at base camp are a possibility, as are weeks of sunshine and blue skies. You should be prepared to expect anything and embrace the unpredictable.
The author was a guest of Arctic Kingdom on its Narwhal & Polar Bear, Floe Edge Safari, including all food and drink, return internal flights from Ottawa to Pond Inlet, snowmobile transfers, accommodation in the Arctic in hotels pre- and post-camp and ‘en suite’ tent accommodation on the ice in the cost. The trip runs four times a year, between May and June.
There’s something quite captivating about the sea turtle. Inhabiting the world’s warmest waters and quietest islands, perhaps it’s their gentle nature and ancient roots that fascinate us. Or it could be how they migrate thousands of miles every year, helping to maintain the health of our oceans with their grazing habits.
Sadly, sea turtle populations around the world have fallen at alarming rates in recent decades, with six out of the seven species considered vulnerable or endangered – some critically. Thankfully, many places still see healthy numbers of the marine reptile grace their shores, and have set up conservation schemes to guard and monitor them.
Seeing turtles in the wild is on any ocean-lovers bucket list, so we’ve picked out some of the best destinations to spot them for yourself, from a sensible distance.
1. Oman
Green sea turtle making her way back into the ocean (Shutterstock)
Many are surprised to learn thousands of turtles migrate to the Sultanate for nesting season between May and October. An estimated 20,000 sea turtles crawl onto the Arabian Peninsula sands, dig their nests, and lay from 50,000 to 60,000 every year.
Green turtles are likely to be seen on most Omani beaches, with Ras Al Hadd and Ras Al Jinz Turtle Reserve being the top spots to visit. The latter is the largest reserve in the Indian Ocean with strict rules in place to manage and protect the endangered marine reptile. Other species can be found on Masirah Island, Oman’s largest island, while leatherback turtles may also be spotted in Omani waters, but do not come to shore.
2. Costa Rica
Hatchlings taking their first steps in Costa Rica (Shutterstock)
There’s certainly a reason Costa Rica is popular for turtle spotting. One of the best places to head is Tortuguero on the Caribbean coast, which literally means ‘Land of turtles’. There are three species found here, with a huge amount of green turtles along its 35km beach. The turtles nest from July to early October, with August being peak season, and hatchlings appear 65 days later. Take a guided tour after dark to find them.
Costa Rica is also home to the rare event called arribada – when a great number of endangered olive ridley turtles arrive onto beaches to nest. This only happens in nine locations around the world, and two of them are in Costa Rica. The beach at Ostional Wildlife Refuge on the Nicolya Peninsula is one location, while Nancite Beach in Santa Rosa National Park is the other.
3. Cayman Islands
Green sea turtle swimming in the Cayman Islands (Shutterstock)
Sea turtles are so important to the Cayman Islands, they’re been made a prominent symbol of Caymanian culture and identity. You’ll see turtles on local money, the flag, and even the Cayman Carnival of Batabano is named after the word describing the tracks left in the sand when the turtles crawl up the beach to nest. The real thing can be seen at various protected bays around the islands’ shorelines, with Spotts Beach on Grand Cayman being particularly well-known for its turtle activity . Grab a snorkel and goggles and you’ll have a high chance of eyeing a sea turtle in the blissful sea waters, whatever month you travel. Those interested in conservation can go to the Cayman Turtle Centre (CTC), which has been helping re-establish the Caribbean’s population of green turtles with its successful breeding programme for more than 20 years.
4. Australia
Snorkelling with turtles in Ningaloo Reef (Shutterstock)
The Great Barrier Reef may have six out of the seven species of sea turtles, but there’s already many tourists flocking here. Why not try another part of Australia for a close encounter with sea turtles? We suggest heading to Australia’s Coral Coast to places such Ningaloo Reef and Shark Bay, both World Heritage areas, where green, leatherback, hawksbill and flatback turtles can we witnessed swimming, mating, nesting and hatching. In fact, Australia is the only place in the world to see flatback turtles in the wild.
Travellers can spectate the turtles egg-laying in Australian summertime between November and March. For the best chance of observing in a non-intrusive manner, we suggest joining an educational turtle tour from Jurabi Turtle Centre.
Off the east coast of Borneo, in Malaysian territory, three little islands sit in the Sulu Sea. Palau Selingan, otherwise known as Turtle Island National Park, is made up from Selingan, Bakungan Kecil and Gulisan islands, all of which are havens for green and leatherback sea turtles during nesting season. Throughout the year, turtles will emerge from the sea at dusk to lay their eggs, before lurching back into the ocean waters. Come between July and October for the calmest seas, but make sure to book in with Sabah Park before arrival, as the conservation area has a limit on people visiting.
Elsewhere in Borneo, scuba divers and snorkellers usually head to Sipadan Island for the opportunity to swim alongside turtles. We advise keeping at a good distance, especially in August during mating season, when turtles can become aggressive.
6. Jamaica
Hawksbill turtle in Jamaica (Shutterstock)
Four different species of turtle are found in the waters around Jamaica. Most significant are the critically endangered hawksbill turtles that nest on and just above the island’s beaches. These are considered the most beautiful turtles of all, and were the ones used for ‘tortoiseshell’ products. Several hotels and resorts such as Half Moon and Jamaica Inn work to protect the turtles and give guests the chance to see them.
Large numbers of the hawksbills also nest along Treasure Beach on the unspoilt south coast. Here, you’ll find the Treasure Beach Turtle Group and a small museum dedicated to them. Turtles nest from April to August and hatch between August and October. To join a tour in season see treasurebeachturtlegroup.com
You can see turtles floating in the water around Dry Tortugas National Park (Shutterstock)
The Florida Keys is home to five out seven species of sea turtle, and has one of the largest populations of loggerhead turtles in the world. They can often be seen swimming around wrecks, reefs and underwater structures, foraging for food.
The Key’s most active nesting area can be found 70 miles west from Key West on a scattering of protected sandy islands. Dry Tortugas National Park might be best known to visitors for its Fort Jefferson attraction, but from May to September an abundance of loggerheads come here to nest, with an estimated 15,000 turtles hatching. One of its islands has even been named ‘Loggerhead Key’.
The city of Marathon is also home to the only dedicated turtle hospital in the world, treating injured and suffering turtles for a variety of problems. Around 100,000 people visit every year for a tour of the site and to learn about the incredible work of the staff.
8. Cape Verde
Hatchlings getting close to the sea (Shutterstock)
Another important nesting ground for turtles is the Atlantic Ocean’s Cape Verde. Between July and August, sea turtles come to the islands of Boavista, Maio and Sal – all now protected areas for these important marine animals. Similar to the Florida Keys, it is one of the largest loggerhead breeding areas. Visitors can join a ranger on a night time walk in search for ancient animals: the best way to get a close look without causing disturbance to the nesting areas, and a chance to understand the importance of conservation across the islands.
9. Maldives
Turtle swimming near the shores in the Maldives (Shutterstock)
Throughout this paradisiacal archipelago, travellers can don a snorkel mask or diving suit and see turtles swimming in the Indian Ocean’s warm waters. Five out of seven species of sea turtle can be found here, but Kuredu island in Lhaviyani Atoll hosts one of the largest population of green turtles in the Maldives, where they can be seen munching on luscious seagrass beds.
Although turtles lay eggs throughout the year in the Maldives, June to August is the prime time to watch turtles nesting, and spot hatchlings make their first journey into the ocean.
While much of the Caribbean has been lost to development, tiny Tobago remains stubbornly resistant to change, thanks to a history of rainforest conservation dating back to the 18th century
Why Tobago remains the Caribbean’s untouched paradise
While much of the Caribbean has been lost to development, tiny Tobago remains stubbornly resistant to change, thanks to a history of rainforest conservation dating back to the 18th century
Words Lyn Hughes
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The Main Ridge Forest Reserve is cut through by trails that were primarily created by locals, who used them for getting around before the first road was built across the island (Alamy)
The Main Ridge Forest Reserve is cut through by trails that were primarily created by locals, who used them for getting around before the first road was built across the island (Alamy)
The motmot is one of the more striking birds on Tobago (Alamy)
The motmot is one of the more striking birds on Tobago (Alamy)
The Main Ridge Forest Reserve is cut through by trails that were primarily created by locals, who used them for getting around before the first road was built across the island (Alamy)
The Main Ridge Forest Reserve is cut through by trails that were primarily created by locals, who used them for getting around before the first road was built across the island (Alamy)
Thick gunmetal-grey clouds coated the sky, a smudge of a rainbow fighting to be visible. I had a last sweep of the ocean through my binoculars, hoping to spot dolphins among the whitecaps – I had been told they passed by Castara Bay most mornings. A pair of parrots squawked overhead and a flash of blue in my peripheral vision made me turn to see a motmot land on the end of my verandah. I looked back down the bay and spotted a young guy, presumably a tourist, strolling the golden beach, shoes in hand, happily oblivious to the falling rain. It seemed to sum up everything I was feeling about Tobago.
I can tell how much I like a place by how I feel about it in the pouring rain, and Tobago has charm to spare. It also has substance. When the resort chain Sandals tried to open its biggest ever complex here in 2019, such was the local consternation about its effect on an island barely half the size of the Isle of Man that it stood little chance. The islanders sent them packing. Tobago may have a handful of resorts over on its flat south-west side, but they tend to be small, low-key affairs. The overall message was clear: this place isn’t for the masses.
“This is rainforest and it needs to be respected… There is no major logging of trees here and no quarrying”
Despite being the ‘second’ island in the dual nation of Trinidad and Tobago, it soon becomes apparent that locals don’t see things in these terms.
“We were never part of Trinidad or Venezuela. It was the British who put us together with Trinidad,” I was later told by Desmond Wright, the in-house guide at Cuffie River Nature Retreat. “Tobago was always by itself and different.” And that’s not just island pride talking; there is history to back it up.
A century before John Muir dreamed up the idea of a government-sponsored national parks system, the world’s first legally protected forest reserve, Main Ridge, had already been set up in Tobago. It’s a strange quirk of fate that one of the earliest examples of conservationism is to be found on this tiny island, more so that it came out of a history steeped in the brutal sugar plantations of colonialism. Yet this green spirit continues today, with Tobago now also home to a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, cementing its place as an unsung pioneer among the Caribbean islands. It was something that I was curious to see for myself.
The Gilpin Trace is a half-day hike that runs through the Main Ridge Forest Reserve (Alamy)
The Gilpin Trace is a half-day hike that runs through the Main Ridge Forest Reserve (Alamy)
An unusual history
“This is rainforest and it needs to be respected,” I was told by William Trim, former director of the Department of Natural Resources and Environment and now a renowned birding guide. “The community of Tobago are more aware of the importance of the rainforest compared with Trinidad and other Caribbean islands, so there is no major logging of trees here and no quarrying.”
But the origins of Tobago’s forest reserve struggle to live up to the noble sentiments of the present. Historically, the combination of the island’s fertile soil, rainfall and its geographical location made it one of the most fought over pieces of land in the Caribbean. It changed hands over 30 times between the British, French and Dutch from the early 17th century on, before being finally ceded to Britain in 1814. It only gained its independence in 1962.
William Trim [right] scrutinises the rainforest for birdlife on one of his tours (Simon Chubb)
William Trim [right] scrutinises the rainforest for birdlife on one of his tours (Simon Chubb)
The European lust for sugar saw plantations spread across the island. At the Tobago Museum I gazed at a map covering the period between 1807 and 1815. During this period there were 86 estates (plantations) here and a population of 16,613 enslaved Africans.
You have to go back even further to discover the roots of Main Ridge. It was in 1776, during one of the island’s spells under British rule, when a member of parliament, Soame Jenyns, advocated for the creation of a forest reserve here. This was the age of the Enlightenment, and he had read of a link between trees and precipitation. The reserve was described as being “for the purpose of attracting frequent showers of rain upon which the fertility of lands in these climates doth entirely depend.” In other words: for the continued success of the plantations.
The Main Ridge Forest Reserve is filled with waterfalls and slices of wilderness that remind you just what a natural gem this is (Alamy)
The Main Ridge Forest Reserve is filled with waterfalls and slices of wilderness that remind you just what a natural gem this is (Alamy)
Regardless of its roots, the value of the forest was largely respected down the years – a rarity in the Caribbean region, which retains just over 10% of its original forest cover. With the abolition of slavery, many of the formerly enslaved workers gained small plots of land where they could be self-sufficient. And when the plantation system collapsed, Tobago stayed very much a rural economy, eschewing the overdevelopment of other Caribbean islands. Nearly two-thirds of it is still smothered in evergreen rainforest today, attracting discerning nature lovers looking for a taste of the unspoilt Caribbean. I was one of them.
The idyllic Englishman’s Bay is capped by thick tropical rainforest (Alamy)
The idyllic Englishman’s Bay is capped by thick tropical rainforest (Alamy)
Into the forest
Having arrived at the Cuffie River Nature Retreat for a guided walk and lunch, I kicked myself that I hadn’t booked to stay for a few days. Every window looked out over lush forest, the air was thick with the fragrance of exotic flowers, and hummingbirds frequently darted by, landing on the plentiful feeders. The only sounds were of birdsong and rain, and I just wanted to curl up on a sofa and stay.
“I tried to create a space in the middle of nowhere that would be a retreat in nature,” said owner Regina Dumas, a charismatic Trinidadian in her 70s. After a career in rural development, and with her children having left home, she had been looking for what to do next. Her family had owned a cocoa plantation here and it provided the perfect place to set up a secluded small hotel. For labour, she used local villagers, arranging training where necessary, and when her maintenance man, Desmond Wright, showed an interest in birds, she was grateful at being able to add a new experience for guests.
“When we started, I knew nothing about birds,”Regina explained. “I found a local hunter to teach me. But then Desmond learned bird calls; now he’s been guiding our visitors all these years.”
Birds are one of the highlights for travellers to the island. While Tobago doesn’t have as many species as Trinidad, it does have some endemics not found there, and also attracts birds from South America.
“Twenty-two of the birds here are not found in Trinidad or other places in the Caribbean,” I was later told by William Trim on visiting the Main Ridge Forest Reserve. “And while some of the birds are found in South America, it would be more difficult to spot them there; it’s easier here.”
“Hundreds of red-billed tropicbirds wheeled through the air, some harassed by frigatebirds mugging them for food and nesting materials”
William and I met at the reserve’s visitor centre, and no sooner had we stepped out onto its verandah than he pointed out a Venezuelan flycatcher. “Some people spend days looking for one of these,” he said, smiling. “You’ve seen it within five minutes!”
I had been eagerly anticipating my first real taste of Main Ridge. Together we wandered a couple of the reserve’s walking trails while he explained how we were following paths once regularly used by the islanders, either on foot or by donkey, before the road was built over the ridge. He pointed out that the nails in the remnants of a wooden bridge were British and centuries old.
We were following the mountain streams, and as we walked, the forest came alive with birdsong. Every few metres there was something to stop and look at, whether it was the burrow of a trapdoor spider, a secretive fish or a plant with medicinal properties.
The visitor centre at Main Ridge has great views of the forest and ocean (Alamy)
The visitor centre at Main Ridge has great views of the forest and ocean (Alamy)
William was particularly excited at us seeing at least five white-tailed sabrewing hummingbirds, some of whom were displaying even though it wasn’t mating season yet. Iridescent green and blue in colour, this is Tobago’s largest hummingbird and it is only found here and in Venezuela. There were fears they could be extinct in Tobago after the devastating Hurricane Flora in 1963, but they have been recovering in numbers since.
Back at the visitor centre, there were far-reaching views down to the coast in one direction, but otherwise the scene was of thick forest coating the spine of the island.
“North-east Tobago is of great interest globally,” explained William, “and it was declared a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve in 2020.” He explained that this reserve encompasses not only Main Ridge but also the surrounding marine environment, home to coral reefs and mangroves, as well as local communities. For such a tiny island, barely 300 sq km in size, the numbers are astonishing: 1,774 species, 19 habitat types, 83 IUCN Red List species, 41 endemic species and 15 communities with a unique cultural heritage.
The rufous-tailed jacamar, spotted in the forests of Main Ridge, is often mistaken for a hummingbird (Alamy)
The rufous-tailed jacamar, spotted in the forests of Main Ridge, is often mistaken for a hummingbird (Alamy)
One of those communities is Castara, a fishing village on the Caribbean coast with just the right balance of local life and low-key tourism. Its two sandy beaches were deserted when I arrived, with just a few locals hanging out – or ‘liming’ as it’s known here – by the seafront. Vibrant soca music blasted out of a bar but there were no customers. A couple of American visitors I met explained that the village had been much livelier the night before when a steel pan band had played.
“Some evenings there is music and a bonfire on the beach. Otherwise, the noisiest things here are the roosters,” they warned. I had wondered what the earplugs in my room were for; I found out in the wee hours when a chorus of cockerels pierced the pre-dawn.
Veronika’s rescued horses take visitors for treks down to the ocean near the coastal village of Buccoo, where they swim across the bay while carrying travellers on their backs (Alamy)
Veronika’s rescued horses take visitors for treks down to the ocean near the coastal village of Buccoo, where they swim across the bay while carrying travellers on their backs (Alamy)
Wild surprises
It was a wrench to leave Castara, but I wanted to see more of the island’s north-eastern tip, its communities and its nature, so I had arranged a stay in Speyside, which is reportedly where Tobago’s tourism started.
The Blue Waters Inn sits on a private bay looking out to the island of Little Tobago, previously known as Bird of Paradise Island. It’s previous name comes from British politician Sir William Ingram’s attempt to introduce a colony of the titular birds from New Guinea in 1908, in a bid to conserve them. After his death, the island was gifted to the government as a nature reserve and, while the birds of paradise have since been presumed extinct, it remains an important breeding site for seabirds such as the red-billed tropicbird.
Newton George points to the skies above Little Tobago, which soon become filled with swooping red-billed tropicbirds (Simon Chubb)
Newton George points to the skies above Little Tobago, which soon become filled with swooping red-billed tropicbirds (Simon Chubb)
I took a tour there with former Little Tobago custodian Newton George, now one of the island’s best-known birding guides. A group of us took a glass-bottomed boat to the island, where we were surprised to be met by a chicken.
Newton explained that unlike the long-gone birds of paradise (he last saw one in 1981), these non-native interlopers still lived feral here, having been introduced when Little Tobago was inhabited decades ago.
A walk to the top of the island brought us to a viewpoint overlooking ocean, cliff and woodland, where nature was showcased in all its glory. Hundreds of red-billed tropicbirds wheeled through the air, some harassed by frigatebirds (the pirates of the skies) mugging them for food or nesting materials. Newton trained his telescope on half a dozen red-footed boobies perched in trees. A short walk down a nearby path also revealed a brown booby sitting on its nest, while the boat trip back took us over the reef, offering views of colourful parrotfish, angelfish and corals.
A red-billed tropicbird soars through the skies (Simon Chubb)
A red-billed tropicbird soars through the skies (Simon Chubb)
Tobago is known for its snorkelling and diving, but I was keen to try some other ocean experiences. I headed back down to Buccoo in the south-west to meet Veronika, a German equestrian who had originally come here as a tourist but fell in love with the island and the man who would become her husband. Within a few years she had rescued several horses, mainly former race horses from Trinidad, and was now working with local children and those with disabilities, providing therapy through interaction with these animals. But she also kept getting requests from tourists, so she now offers a holistic ‘Being with Horses’ experience that includes swimming in the ocean on horseback.
“We let the horses choose you,” she declared as the four of us stood there, bridles in hand, facing the animals. I had a quick flashback to school sports teams and the dread of not being picked. In this case though, a handsome bay thoroughbred came straight up to me and nuzzled my arm. His name was Morning Calm, an 11-year-old ex-racehorse.
Having all been selected, we mounted and made our way through the village, past the goat-racing track (Tobago races goats rather than horses), with several loose horses accompanying us. We had comfortable saddles but no stirrups, and we were exhorted to just let our bodies go with the motion of the horse, “as if wining” – a gyrating local dance.
“It felt unreal to be sitting in the equivalent of a warm bath and watching the occasional fish swim by”
Walking along the golden sands of Buccoo Bay, we eventually turned into the sea and started to head back the way we had come, keeping parallel with the beach. There was quite a swell, more than anticipated.
“Most of the time it’s completely calm here,” said Veronica. “It’s more of a challenge today. Look towards the waves; that way, if a big breaker comes, you’ll have seen it and you won’t be taken by surprise.”
Morning Calm was unfazed by the conditions, living up to his name, and when we eventually emerged I felt a sense of triumph.
London Bridge Rock is found near St Giles Island, an important breeding site for frigatebirds (Simon Chubb)
London Bridge Rock is found near St Giles Island, an important breeding site for frigatebirds (Simon Chubb)
While swimming a horse in the sea was exhilarating, I was keen to take to the water again to experience a couple of Tobago’s natural phenomena. We set off at dusk in a small boat and headed first to Nylon Pool, an offshore sandbar that provides the experience of being surrounded on all sides by the ocean yet being able to stand in metre-deep water. I slipped into the still pool; it felt unreal to be sitting in the equivalent of a warm bath while watching the occasional fish swim by.
Much of the earlier cloud had cleared by now and the stars were out. I was called back to the boat, whereupon the captain declared it dark enough for our next stop. We chugged past a beach, whose pristine white sands I could make out even in this light, and made our way to Bon Accord Lagoon. At first there was little to see: an expanse of dark water to our left, mangrove to our right. But then I was told to lower my hand into the water. As we put-putted along, I trailed my arm and a starburst of lights exploded around it. I had the lagoon to myself and the only sounds were of cicadas or the occasional splash of a fish. I completely lost all track of time as I floated in wonder in the water, every movement producing a slipstream of bioluminescence. Stars twinkled overhead and fireflies flickered in the mangroves. Nature’s wonders don’t get much better than this.
Known as the ‘warm heart of Africa’ for its friendly welcome and people, Malawi has added another string to its bow in recent years. This sliver of a country is the setting for one of Africa’s most inspiring conservation success stories, and it now punches well above its weight as a wildlife destination.
For the past 20 years, a remarkable renaissance has taken place here, transforming once eerily empty parks into thriving sanctuaries. Two of them – Majete and Liwonde – are now also home to the ‘Big Five’ (elephant, rhino, leopard, lion and buffalo) that are so coveted by safari-goers.
In the past, Malawi lacked the resources to protect its wildlife, and by the late 1980s and ’90s it had become a poachers’ paradise. In 2003, the government took the bold decision to restore Majete Wildlife Reserve to its former glory in a pioneering 25-year partnership with conservation organisation African Parks (AP), which was then a fledgling non-profit harbouring big ideas to revive the continent’s depleted wild habitats. Today, the renowned NGO manages 22 parks in 12 countries. And it all started with Majete.
After fencing the entire reserve, AP translocated some 2,500 animals, including elephant, buffalo, rhino, leopard and antelope. They reintroduced tourism, bringing much-needed income along with classrooms and health clinics to local communities, garnering their support for conservation. Following on from Majete’s success, African Parks took on both Liwonde National Park and Nkhotakota Wildlife Reserve in 2015, both then struggling with poaching and in dire need of TLC. They too are now thriving.
Nine national parks and reserves make up Malawi’s tapestry of habitats, spanning mountains, plateaus, grasslands, wetlands, lakes and rivers, attracting over 650 avian species. The best birding destinations are the forests and grasslands of Nyika Plateau, the wetlands of Liwonde and Lake Malawi, and Nkhotakota. Other wildlife isn’t as prolific as in big-hitter safari destinations such as Serengeti or Kruger, but nor are the tourists. There’s no mass tourism here: game vehicles never crowd around sightings and you’ll soon start to feel like you have these wild places to yourself.
Malawi operates at a gentle pace. Don’t bring a tick-list; do bring an open mind and a sense of curiosity. Enjoy the warmth of the people you meet and the feel-good factor in knowing that just by being here, you are part of the remarkable rewilding story that makes a safari in Malawi so special.
Three top places to see Malawi’s wildlife
Majete Wildlife Reserve
Young nyala in Majete Wildlife Reserve (Alamy)
The granite hills, miombo woodlands and riverine landscapes of Malawi’s flagship reserve host all the ‘Big Five’, with elephant and buffalo the easiest to spot. Some 12,000 animals share this home, among them reintroduced giraffe and antelope species such as waterbuck, impala, nyala and eland. The Shire River offers great wildlife sightings, especially in the dry season. Explore via guided game drives, boat trips and walking safaris, or even on 4WD self-drive trips, taking a community guide to make the most of it.
Best for: Predators, which have made a comeback here. Some 70 to 80 lions roam the 700 sq km reserve, along with cheetah and wild dogs.
Stay at: Game Capture Campsite or Thawale Tented Camp, which are both run by African Parks. For a touch of luxury, try Mkulumadzi Lodge.
Having been almost poached dry, Malawi’s largest (1,800 sq km) and oldest reserve has a starring role in the country’s renaissance, thanks to African Parks’ translocation of 500 elephants from Liwonde and Majete, along with some 2,000 other animals, including sable, kudu, buffalo and zebra. Wildlife isn’t as easy to spot as in Liwonde, but with over 320 avian species, birding is especially rewarding. Look out for myriad kingfishers, palm-nut vultures and even Pel’s fishing owls.
Best for: Adventure. Trips range from gentle nature walks along the riverbank to watching for hippo as you kayak the river, to rigorous hikes up Mount Kasukusuka and Chipata Mountain.
Studded with bulbous baobabs, Borassus palms, towering mopane woodlands and fever-tree forests, Liwonde is Malawi’s most attractive park. The Shire River, curving gently through the floodplains, is its soul. Of the ‘Big Five’, leopards are particularly elusive but the floodplains teem with wildlife, particularly antelope species (including rare sable) and buffalo, which are best seen on game drives (self-drive is possible) Walking safaris in the early morning light are a joy.
Best for: Boat trips. With 400 bird species to spot, you can spy everything from tiny malachite kingfishers to huge Goliath herons from the water as you pass elephants slurping from the riverbank.
Malawi’s largest national park, Nyika Plateau, is best known for hiking and sensational vistas, and you may well spot antelope and zebra as you go. Nearby Vwaza Marsh Wildlife Reserve is home to nearly all of the ‘Big Five’, except for rhino.
Kasungu National Park
Kasungu once teemed with wildlife, including 2,000 elephants, but a dearth of resources and extreme poaching saw it struggle for years until the International Fund for Animal Welfare and the government stepped in. Nearly 700 animals were reintroduced last year, with 263 elephants translocated from Liwonde.
Around Lilongwe
The highly regarded Lilongwe Wildlife Centre offers tours of its forest reserve, home to 200 rescued animals. Just 60km away, Dzalanyama Forest Reserve is a great birding area that is best explored on foot or by bike.
Lake Malawi NP
Lake Malawi, the world’s ninth-largest lake, is known for its varied birdlife and is home to more types of fish than any other lake on Earth, including 875 species of tiny, multi-coloured cichlids that are mesmerising to spot while snorkelling
Solving the mysteries of Australia’s Great Barrier Reef is critical to safeguarding its future, which is why tourism operators in Bundaberg are now joining scientists in helping to find the answers
WordsJessica Wynne Lockhart
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From 1851 onwards, Lady Elliot Island was mined intensively for guano (for use in fertiliser), which stripped the island of its soil and vegetation. It wasn’t until 1969, when a local pilot took on the island’s lease, that replanting of the land began (Tourism and Events Queensland)
From 1851 onwards, Lady Elliot Island was mined intensively for guano (for use in fertiliser), which stripped the island of its soil and vegetation. It wasn’t until 1969, when a local pilot took on the island’s lease, that replanting of the land began (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Just beneath the water’s surface, walls of iridescent fish hovered and bobbed in the current, the filtered sunshine reflecting off their fins. Below them, colourful parrotfish made their rounds, while a school of big-eyed trevally moved slowly along the seabed, unaffected by my presence. To them, I was just another small fish in the big azure sea surrounding Queensland’s Lady Elliot Island.
A short flight from Bundaberg, this remote island off Australia’s east coast marks the southernmost coral cay of the Great Barrier Reef. It’s best known for its large marine species. The deep waters of the continental shelf are just kilometres away and an upwelling of nutrients attracts humpback whales, sea turtles, sharks and manta rays to the area. Included among this collection is the bizarre Inspector Clouseau, a rare rose-coloured manta named after the Pink Panther detective. I, however, was here for the coral.
Lady Elliot Island isn’t dubbed the ‘Home of the Manta Ray’ for nothing, with the best time to spot one being between June and September; the corals of the Great Barrier Reef aren’t always spectacularly coloured (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Lady Elliot Island isn’t dubbed the ‘Home of the Manta Ray’ for nothing, with the best time to spot one being between June and September; the corals of the Great Barrier Reef aren’t always spectacularly coloured (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Rising up in columns around and below me, hues of earthy yellow, terracotta pink and shades of brown dominated the underwater scene. I had to remind myself that what I was looking at weren’t plants, but rather colonies of thousands of tiny animals (polyps) – animals that are increasingly under threat.
Since 1998, rising global sea temperatures have led to seven mass bleaching events on the Great Barrier Reef, including one in 2016 that resulted in headlines declaring its death. It’s a rumour that has only been perpetuated by tourists, who visit without fully understanding what they’re looking at. After all, it’s an easy mistake to make if you’re expecting to see the full Technicolor glory of Finding Nemo but are met with 50 shades of brown.
“You’ll see lots of brown. This doesn’t mean the coral is sick or dead; that’s just the colour of a healthy reef,” said Jacinta Shackleton, a marine biologist and master reef guide, as we toured above Lady Elliot’s coral gardens in a glass-bottomed boat.
A baby crab walks along the sandy beach (Tourism and Events Queensland)
A baby crab walks along the sandy beach (Tourism and Events Queensland)
It’s just one of many misconceptions that people have about the reef. Even bleaching, Shackleton explained, isn’t necessarily a death sentence: “This occurs when the coral is really stressed out; it’s a temporary state that it can recover from.”
But while the Great Barrier Reef may be alive, it’s far from well. Global warming isn’t the only threat to its future; it also faces cyclones, which are occurring with increasing severity and frequency (a by-product of climate change). There is also pollution from land run-off, ocean acidification and outbreaks of coral-eating crown-of-thorns starfish. Its only hope is that scientists can find a way to safeguard its future, and now they have an ally in the form of tour operators.
“Hues of earthy yellow, terracotta pink and various shades of brown dominated the underwater scene”
(Tourism and Events Queensland)
(Tourism and Events Queensland)
Lady Elliot Island is just one example of how the two are working together. But while I’m thrilled to be snorkelling at a site where healthy coral and vibrant fish are found in abundance, there’s always a lingering sense of disappointment that it doesn’t look hyper-saturated, like the images you’d see in a David Attenborough documentary or in tourism videos.
Fortunately, I found the antidote for this particular affliction back on the mainland, in a large farm shed on the banks of the Burnett River. Inside, long troughs filled with moving saltwater – which had been carefully pH-balanced and was temperature-controlled – are home to thousands of individual corals. Under the glow of the facility’s UV lights, their true colour and characteristics are evident, resulting in something closer to my idealised image of the Great Barrier Reef.
I walked between the rows of tanks, peering down at each specimen in the water. Coral that could only be described as Play-Doh red in colour sat beside scolymia, an Australian hard coral prized for its vibrant neon hues. Other flower-like varieties blossomed under the water’s surface, their delicate tendrils glowing in shades of fluorescent blue-green and millennial pink. It was like a scene from the film Avatar – beautiful and altogether otherworldly.
This is Monsoon Aquatics, Australia’s largest coral farm. Since 2008, this family-owned business has supplied hobbyists and aquariums with coral from its locations in Darwin and Cairns, and it has the ability to produce 2,500 ‘fragments’ of coral each week. Its newest location, in Bundaberg, isn’t just its largest; it also marks Monsoon’s recent expansion into aquaculture.
“We need to be identifying the types of corals that are resilient to change, whether that be climate change, extreme [land-based] run-off or other changes that are happening out in the oceans,” said Daniel Kimberley, Monsoon Aquatics’ founding director. “And in an aquaculture facility, we have the potential to produce millions of corals at scale.”
Much like tree nurseries are used for reforestation projects, in the future it is hoped that Monsoon Aquatics will be a key player in replanting the Great Barrier Reef.
“The ultimate goal is to be a piece of the puzzle in reef restoration,” explained Brooke Kimberley, the company’s business manager. She led me into the nursery where they are developing the technology to get the corals to breed on demand.
Image captions
Image 1
Master reef guides are ambassadors for the Great Barrier Reef, trained to give up-to-date scientific information to visitors (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Image 2
The corals of the Great Barrier Reef aren’t always spectacularly coloured (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Master reef guides are ambassadors for the Great Barrier Reef, trained to give up-to-date scientific information to visitors (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Master reef guides are ambassadors for the Great Barrier Reef, trained to give up-to-date scientific information to visitors (Tourism and Events Queensland)
The corals of the Great Barrier Reef aren’t always spectacularly coloured (Tourism and Events Queensland)
The corals of the Great Barrier Reef aren’t always spectacularly coloured (Tourism and Events Queensland)
The Lady Musgrave pontoon sits within the lagoon of the eponymous island (Tourism and Events Queensland)
The Lady Musgrave pontoon sits within the lagoon of the eponymous island (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Rooms in the Lady Musgrave’s underwater observatory allow you to watch marine life from the comfort of your bed (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Rooms in the Lady Musgrave’s underwater observatory allow you to watch marine life from the comfort of your bed (Tourism and Events Queensland)
The first step is better understanding the lives of corals, which are as fascinating as they are complex. Coral polyps form a symbiotic relationship with algae called zooxanthellae, which is responsible for their unique pigmentation. Bleaching occurs when the coral expels the algae, in turn becoming susceptible to disease and starvation.
Coral has many unusual characteristics. Far from docile or immobile, some species are capable of moving; others can be aggressive, fighting with competitors for space and territory. But most compelling of all is how coral reproduces. Just once a year, under the glow of a full moon and when the tides and water temperature are just right, many corals simultaneously release their eggs and sperm into the ocean’s water in an event known as spawning. It’s a synchronised phenomenon that scientists still don’t fully understand. It’s also critical to the reef’s survival, because while some coral can reproduce asexually by cloning itself, spawning improves genetic diversity and resilience.
“Coral spawning is based on magical things that we still don’t know about,” explained Brooke. “The key for us is now conditioning the mothers to the point where we can get them to spawn on demand.”
For visitors, tours of Monsoon’s facility, which are set to take place in a purpose-built interpretative centre, are an opportunity to understand more about the creature’s unique ecology.
“To be able to see coral up close makes you understand it more. It makes you want to protect it and understand why it’s so important to do what we do,” said Brooke. “We want to make sure the reef is here for generations to come.”
The challenge, of course, is that few trips to Australia are possible without racking up a massive carbon debt, which is linked to the climate change affecting its waters. But the countless scientists and marine biologists that I’ve spoken with along the reef’s 2,300km length have all told me the same thing: the research and restoration they’re doing would be impossible without tourists.
That’s the case with the Lady Musgrave Experience, a pontoon moored near another coral cay, just north of Lady Elliot Island. Since its launch in 2021, it’s become one of the most sought-after overnight stays for visitors to the reef, with its on-board glamping tents and bunk beds with underwater views.
Soon, the facility will become just as renowned for its citizen-science programmes. A new dedicated research pontoon will support the work of marine biologists while allowing visitors to participate in coral restoration programmes. But already, the positive impact of its presence is being felt.
“Being permanently moored out at the reef allows us to carry out reef surveys weekly. We can monitor impacts because, as a tourism provider, we spend more time out there than anybody else,” said Mel Tree, general manager of the Lady Musgrave Experience, when I met her for breakfast at Bundaberg’s Windmill Café.
“ It was like a scene from the film Avatar – beautiful and altogether otherworldly”
(Alamy)
(Alamy)
This is just one of dozens of tour operators essentially being run as social entrepreneurships, with the reef’s health at the forefront. Nearly every day, boats depart for the reef from Cairns, Port Douglas and Bundaberg, taking with them not only tourists, but also scientists and scuba divers who painstakingly survey the reef and reattach coral fragments at nursery sites. The Port Douglas-based Wavelength Reef Cruises, for example, has planted more than 65,000 corals across 27 sites since 2018. In total, Queensland’s tourism operators have installed over 100 reef coral nurseries, propagating hundreds of thousands of corals across the Great Barrier Reef.
Research is underway at Lady Elliot Island, too, where on-site marine biologists such as Shackleton survey coral health, tag turtles, track manta rays and sample the water.
Turtle-nesting season on Lady Elliot Island happens yearly from November to early March (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Turtle-nesting season on Lady Elliot Island happens yearly from November to early March (Tourism and Events Queensland)
“If we didn’t have tourists coming out here, then the resort wouldn’t be able to have a scientific team,” said Shackleton. She told me that she remains optimistic about the future of the reef, despite the hot and dry El Niño summer that lies ahead.
“The reef is always going to be here,” said Shackleton, “but it’s definitely going to be different from the way that we see it today.”
With her words in my ears, I donned my wetsuit and flippers one last time before heading home. From the dark below, a green sea turtle appeared. It saw me but didn’t change tack. Instead, it swam directly under the length of my body, its hard shell close enough to touch and a gentle reminder that even in the dark, hope can appear.
Image captions
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A boat drifts over a tasselled wobbegong shark (Tourism and Events Queensland)
A boat drifts over a tasselled wobbegong shark (Tourism and Events Queensland)
A boat drifts over a tasselled wobbegong shark (Tourism and Events Queensland)
See the reef through Indigenous eyes
Australia’s Aboriginal peoples have lived in harmony with the land and sea for tens of thousands of years. Increasingly, their perspective and knowledge are being called upon to help manage the reef for future generations. Here are two ways you can learn more from them.
Learn more about how Aboriginal peoples have lived in harmony with Australia’s environment (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Learn more about how Aboriginal peoples have lived in harmony with Australia’s environment (Tourism and Events Queensland)
Lady Musgrave’s Taribelang Overnight Experience
On this three-day departure from Bundaberg, visitors join a team of marine biologists and Taribelang Bunda guides for an all-inclusive retreat on the reef. You’ll spend your days learning about local Aboriginal culture and history, taking guided snorkelling tours and eating meals prepared with indigenous ingredients. At night, retire to your on-deck glamping tent on the Lady Musgrave pontoon or sleep next to the fish in its underwater observatory.
Up in Cairns, there are countless opportunities to learn more about Aboriginal culture. Aboard Dreamtime Dive & Snorkel’s catamaran, you’ll join Indigenous sea rangers to get some context for the history of the reef and the current issues it faces. Trips to snorkel sites also offer the chance to immerse yourself in local cultural practices, including demos of traditional dances, the digeridoo, clap sticks and fire poles.
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Johnny Depp was winking at me. OK, it wasn’t actually the actor who plays Captain Jack. And he bore little resemblance to any type of sparrow. Rather, he was a magnificent frigatebird – the pirate of the skies – with glossy black plumage, a long hooked beak and a patch of red on his neck that would no doubt inflate when he was trying to impress the Keira Knightleys of the frigatebird world.
Earlier in the day I had watched the aerobatics above Genovesa Island as these opportunistic bird-buccaneers harassed and chased other birds, trying to steal either their food or nesting materials. Not that there was any honour among thieves – once a frigatebird had successfully stolen something, that frigate would, in turn, be pursued relentlessly by its comrades.
(Simon Chubb)
And there was plenty of opportunity for thievery. Down below, just behind the dazzling coral sand of Darwin Bay, was a city of birds, all living cheek by jowl – or bill to wing. The bushes were full of frigatebirds with sex, rather than kleptomania, on their minds, the males all trying to attract the ladies by displaying their puffed-up scarlet throat patches. There were also red-footed boobies, either nesting or feeding youngsters, while handsome Nazca boobies looked on superiorly. On the sandy earth, gulls passed each other pieces of coral as part of their courtship ritual.
They were all crammed so close together that when one red-footed booby flew in to feed its youngster, four open beaks from neighbouring nests craned forward asking for food. The booby fed one, but then seemed to have doubts as to whether that was really its off spring, and switched its attentions to a different eager baby.
The Galápagos Islands never disappoint. I have been fortunate enough to have visited before, yet every day of every visit brings new gripping dramas. And the uniqueness and diversity of the animals is still a surprise. The size and variety of the giant tortoises that the archipelago is named after; the penguins (on the equator!); the flightless cormorants; the prehistoric-looking iguanas that are specially adapted to eat underwater… the list goes on and on.
The art of being ignored
I was on a seven-night cruise on the MY Letty, a 25m motor-yacht with only ten cabins. We were taking the western/northern route through the archipelago. Each island is different – not just in its wildlife, but in its vegetation, its topography, even the colour of its sand. Genovesa was our first stop.
Genovesa is a small island with a horseshoe-shaped bay – the remains of a collapsed volcanic caldera – and is known for its prolific birdlife. However, the birds paid us no mind as they went about their everyday activity; they were totally oblivious to us even if we were only a foot or two away.
(Simon Chubb)
No matter how many times you visit the Galápagos, it is still a shock to find how you are ignored by the animals. Boarding the Letty at San Cristóbal we had laughed at the sea lions that snoozed on benches and lay across gangways as if they owned them. Here on Genovesa it felt as if we were watching a wildlife documentary on a giant screen, as little tableaux were played out in front of us: the intimacy of a male Nazca booby offering a twig to his mate for approval; a cliff top of thousands of wedge-rumped storm petrels in flight in a relentless search for food; a camouflaged short-eared owl, suddenly striking that cliff top, then appearing with a petrel in its talons.
In the aptly named Darwin Bay, we also had our first snorkelling experience. The Letty carries wetsuits and snorkelling equipment, and there was always at least one opportunity a day to slip into the underwater world. Depending on where we were, we shared the waves with sea lions, white-tipped sharks, marine iguanas, turtles, flightless cormorants, a whole plethora of fish and even penguins.
Back on board, even the long cruises between islands were a wildlife-spotting opportunity. We would often be followed by frigatebirds, which swirled over our boat and came down to rest on the railings and upper canopy. Dolphins would sometimes play in our bow waves. One day we spotted a humpback whale.
Darwin woz ’ere
The Galápagos was discovered in 1535 by the Bishop of Panama, who named it after the saddlebacked giant tortoises he found – galápago meaning ‘saddle’. The archipelago became a hideout for buccaneers who found sheltered bays and plentiful food. The poor tortoises were ruthlessly exploited by sailors for the next three centuries.
Of course, the islands have become synonymous with Charles Darwin, who spent just five weeks here in 1835. After years of pondering, he finally developed his theory of natural selection, in part inspired by what he had seen in the Galápagos.
When we arrived at Isabela – the archipelago’s biggest island– we moored at Tagus Cove, which has provided a sheltered anchorage for pirates over the centuries, and where Darwin’s Beagle once anchored too, in search of fresh water. As I kayaked around the bay I was aware that Darwin would have seen the same view, including ancestors of the penguins and flightless cormorants. Graffiti – the names of ships that have taken shelter here – covers the cliffs; I wondered if Darwin had read any of these scribbles.
Despite the large numbers of tourists that visit the Galápagos today, plus the local population (four of the islands are inhabited), boat landings are so well controlled that you only occasionally see other groups. On the Letty, the crew tried to ensure that we landed at a site at the optimum and quietest time.
(Simon Chubb)
This was much appreciated. After all, there is something special about walking on a beach with no other footprints, and a morning landing at Bachas Bay, on Santa Cruz, provided just that. Not that it was pristine – turtle tracks led to the top of the beach, and back down, so a female had presumably laid her eggs in the night. Mysterious thin lines crossed the sand; their source was revealed when a marine iguana headed past, its tail leaving the tell-tale groove in the sand.
The rocks that scattered the shore were alive with Sally Lightfoot crabs of all sizes. Some were black, well camouflaged on the lava. Yet the biggest crabs were the more traditional red. “It is to attract the female crabs,” said our guide, Ceci.
The rockpools were full of life too. In one, a tiny octopus was trying to find somewhere to hide; fish of different sizes were being deposited by the tide into another, larger pool. A heron stood sentinel on one set of rocks, while a pelican cleaned itself on another.
We headed to the top of the beach, where stakes marked several turtle nests. The eggs lie here for two months before the babies hatch and make their rush for the sea. A brackish lake sat just behind the beach, and three flamingos of startling coral-pink danced in its waters, churning up the mud with their feet to find food. It was an idyllic spot, but paradise always has a flipside. In this case it was the voracious horse-flies, which showed no mercy as they bit our tender flesh.
That afternoon, we landed on the island again but close to Dragon Hill. Heavy rain clouds hung as we walked, and this part of the island had certainly seen recent rain, as green vegetation was emerging from the ground and the palo santo trees were beginning to bud. Although it was supposedly the end of the rainy season, the year had been incredibly dry – bad news for the terrestrial animals. So this recent rain was welcomed.
(Simon Chubb)
We spotted a large land iguana eating the new vegetation. “This is beautiful, I am so happy for him. A month ago there was no green here at all,” smiled Ceci. When food is scarce the iguanas eat prickly pears but they have to wait for a pad to drop off. The iguana had a reddish tinge on its otherwise yellow skin. “That’s a sign he is ready to mate,” said Ceci. “With food now around, they’re going to take the opportunity.”
Living with lizards
If the huge iguanas are impressive, the marine iguanas are even more extraordinary and unique. The next day, we landed on the island of Fernandina in the cool of early morning. A strong smell assaulted our noses, and the source soon revealed itself: hundreds of marine iguanas, laying prone, heating themselves up in the sun, warming one side first, and then the other. They need to be warm before they can go into the sea on their search for algae, their favoured food. They looked like small dinosaurs as they lounged across the trails and rocks; we had to watch where we walked.
The waters off Fernandina are rich in nutrients, leading to an abundance of algae, and resulting in larger iguanas than those we had seen elsewhere. It is believed that the iguanas originally arrived here on rafts of vegetation and gradually evolved to eat algae due to a shortage of other food. They have developed large claws for clinging to the rocks, and their black colour means they warm up faster once on land. They have also developed a desalination gland – they sneeze out excess salt.
“These animals aren’t found anywhere else,” Ceci explained. “They are unique. And they are the only gregarious reptile in the world. They are my favourite animal. If I had a chance to rename these islands I’d call them after the marine iguanas, not after the tortoises!” Darwin dismissed marine iguanas as ugly, but maybe he would have developed his theory of evolution a bit sooner if he had taken a more appreciative look at them.
(Simon Chubb)
Further along, nesting on the rocks above high tide, were some more unique creatures: flightless cormorants. There are only around 2,000 of the birds left, as their numbers have been decimated on other islands by feral cats and dogs. “This is one of the most pristine islands in the world,” explained Ceci, before filling us with cormorant factoids: how they can dive over 30m underwater, and how the females squabble over a male, which then selects the one he thinks is strongest.
Watch where you tread
Despite being the world’s top wildlife destination and a living museum of evolution, the Galápagos Islands face constant threats. Introduced species can have a devastating affect on native species, by eating the wildlife, eating the vegetation it depends on or by carrying harmful parasites. Millions of dollars have been spent on eradication programmes, but the struggle goes on.
On Fernandina, nature was playing tricks with us. What looked like a large jagged lump of lava turned out to be a rock smothered in marine iguanas. What looked like driftwood was a snoozing sea lion. We had to divert for the latter. “I’ll step over a marine iguana but not a sea lion!” Ceci explained. A Galápagos hawk sat on some driftwood just feet away, so still that it took a while to realise it wasn’t a branch.
An area of shells and urchin spikes turned out to be the result of ground uplift during a volcanic eruption. “The most recent activity was in 2009. We visited here that morning – it was a clear day, not a cloud in the sky,” said Ceci. “And then we saw a strange cloud over the volcano – the volcano erupting. But it erupted down the other side, not in this direction.”
Nose to beak
On our last full day we revisited Santa Cruz, the most populated island, and drove up into the misty highlands. Giant tortoises roam free in the farmland here, and every now and then what looked like a boulder in a field would move. We stopped at a farm that welcomes visitors to its trails, and within a few minutes came eyeball to eyeball with two huge tortoises eating grass in a meadow. We fell into a respectful silence and ensured we did not stand in front of them, blocking their route. But they were unfazed by our presence, and the only noise other than the click of cameras, was the surprisingly loud chomping of grass.
I could understand why our guide was more impressed by the extraordinary marine iguanas. But, heck, the giant tortoises are fantastic and peculiar too. That evening, onboard the boat, we quizzed each other about our highlights. Nearly everything we had seen – the tortoises, the penguins, the land iguanas, the marine iguanas, the three types of booby – had its champion. There had been less obvious appealing characters too, such as the many fish and other-worldly underwater life. I thought back to the unexpected sight of schools of golden rays that had bewitched us all during a sunset panga ride through a stand of mangroves.
But I also found myself smiling at the memory of a certain pirate of the sky, with its jaunty head and its saucy wink.
This article was first published in 2017 and updated in 2024.